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upstairs to the screechy violin room, and Solomon tended her night and day like she’d done him.”
    â€œThey were sweet on each other,” Ma said, then caught herself. “Still, it wasn’t proper, a lady and a gentleman.”
    â€œThey meant to marry as soon as Miz Lizbet got well, but she didn’t.”
    Rebecca’s eyes were dark and wide as sunflower centers. “Did Miz Lizbet die, James?”
    Ma reached out and took Rebecca under her wing. “Brave soul, she’s gone to her reward. James, the burial?”
    â€œI’m coming to that.” How was he to tell Ma that forever they’d be living in a house with a dead body?
    Ma said, “Well, now, thee couldn’t take her outside, what with the marshal’s men watching thy every move. And the ground was too frozen to dig a proper grave.” Ma’s voice got hard as gravel. “What did thy father do with poor Miss Elizabeth, James?”
    â€œHe said what needed to be said at her funeral service, commending her to the Lord and all.”
    â€œAnd then?” Ma asked impatiently.
    James bristled. “Well, what choice did we have, Ma? If the marshal had gotten Miz Lizbet alive, he’d have hauled her back to her owner in Kentucky.”
    â€œOne person does not own another, James.”
    â€œIt’s the law, at least the way they read it. But if he’d gotten her dead, there’s no telling what those Border Ruffians would have done to her body.” James felt tears pounding the backs of his eyes. He mustn’t cry like a baby on his thirteenth birthday. He was sure Will hadn’t cried over that leg of his.
    Then Rebecca saved him having to say the words that would hurt the most. “Why, thee must have left her upstairs and walled her off!”
    Ma clapped her hand to her mouth. “James, she lies upstairs?”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” he whispered.
    Rebecca stamped her foot, and the floorboards buckled. “James, how could thee? Oh, poor Miz Lizbet, all dead and alone like that.”
    Ma’s lips moved in prayer, as if she were reading. After the longest time, she said, “Thee did the honorable thing, James Baylor Weaver, thee and thy father and Solomon.”
    Rebecca wrinkled her nose. “Why, how she must have smelled!”
    James nodded, remembering those horrid first weeks.
    â€œRemember last summer when Jilly died having her pups, and we didn’t find the poor things for a week? Remember, Ma? Thee gave me a handkerchief soaked in rosewater to put to my nose, but I can still smell Jilly.” She sniffed the air. “I believe I smell Miz Lizbet, too.”
    Ma cast Rebecca a stern scowl and said, “There will be no more talk of a dead body in this house.”
    â€œYes, Ma,” Rebecca said with a groan.
    â€œJames? No more talk. Does thee hear me?”
    â€œClear as a whippoorwill, Ma.”
    Ma took a deep breath. “Now, has thee anything left in the pantry that I might turn into a decent meal? Thee must be hungry, James. Thee’s thin as a carrot.”
    â€œThere hasn’t been one good meal since thee left,” James admitted.
    â€œFire the oven, son,” Ma ordered. “What’s a birthday without a cake?” She pulled down the canister of flour and picked out tiny black bugs that had mercifully died with the winter freeze.

Chapter Seven
TOO MUCH HISTORY
    Silvery-cold air hissed through the uneven joints of the windows behind us. Firebird fluttered his yellow wings to rustle up a little warmth. I could swear he said, “Brrrr!”
    Mattie Berk pulled her sweater over her hands and muttered, “You call this spring?”
    â€œThe house is nearly one hundred fifty years old,” I reminded her. We all three drifted over to the fireplace and toasted our hands.
    Ahn, who knows the history of Firebird House as well as I do, began the saga.
    â€œIt was built the first time in 1855, then